"Thank you, Alex", Gristav says, smiling. "Give me a wave, and I'll come for them myself. As I said, I'm trying to serve the prince, here. So just let me know when a tray can be had, and I'll come fetch it. But for now, please take up a tankard. Gentlemen, all of you, take up a tankard, and drink with me."
"To a day, that has to get better."
Natinilinus's gaze follows the proprietor until he is back inside the tavern and the door closed behind him; then he unfolds his paper and begins again. "Quickly became a favorite of Mistress Pamodae, who trained her in her chosen profession. Opinion of some of the other residents of the House that Mistress Pamodae's devotion was one-sided. Lil departs the employ of the House of Silken Veil to become an independent contractor, as it were. Rumors spread that her clients' loyalty is ensured by means alchemical or otherwise uncanny, rumors that can be neither confirmed nor denied by the present evidence."
He glances around the table. "The most public of the available facts about Lil Scarlet: Both Falk Zincher, brother to Cleg, and Orik Vankaskerkin, son of Saul, are among her stable of clients. The pair argue over the woman in question and come to blows in the streets of Free-Coin. Falk is killed; Orik flees. Fearing possible vengeance at the hands of Cleg or his ruffians, Lil returns to the House of the Silken Veil and Shorafa Pamodae's protection. However," he raises a disquisitional finger, "she keeps a separate flat. Attestation: we visited it last night."
The gnome appears on the verge of continuing when Alex Crispin pokes his head out the door again and gives Gristav an awkward wave and an apologetic smile.
"To a day, that has to get better."
"That's not a gamble I'm willing to take," he states plainly.
Listening to the information given by the gnome, he sighs as they're interrupted yet again. "We're never gonna get through this, are we?" he asks rhetorically, shaking his head in frustration.
"To a day, that has to get better.""That's not a gamble I'm willing to take," he states plainly.
"Is it a drink, you're willing to take?", Gris asks smiling.
Listening to the information given by the gnome, he sighs as they're interrupted yet again. "We're never gonna get through this, are we?" he asks rhetorically, shaking his head in frustration.
"Suggests for improvement, might be taken better, and be more productive, than complaints.", Gristav observes, before leaving to fetch the griddlecakes.
Piccolo drinks in the conversation. Saul's son fled town after killing Cleg's son. Another layer of conflict...blood conflict...often settled only by payment in the same. A woman involved as well. Nothing worse than a woman involved in a violent conflict. Makes men foolish and impulsive.
Alex meets Gristav at the door with a pair of trays. "If you're planning on feeding the hound," he says quietly with a glance over his shoulder toward the kitchen, "I'd appreciate you not mentioning it to Quinta. If she found out a dog had been licking her plates, she'd probably insist on replacing the whole set just to be sure."
Each plate bears a short stack of steaming griddlecakes and a few medallions of country ham.
Piccolo nods his thanks. He leans over the plate enjoying the warmth from fresh griddle cakes and the redolence of fried honey-cured ham. He poses the question to Alex, "Have you butter and syrup?"
Alex meets Gristav at the door with a pair of trays. "If you're planning on feeding the hound," he says quietly with a glance over his shoulder toward the kitchen, "I'd appreciate you not mentioning it to Quinta. If she found out a dog had been licking her plates, she'd probably insist on replacing the whole set just to be sure."
Each plate bears a short stack of steaming griddlecakes and a few medallions of country ham.
"I noticed she didn't favor magic, cleaning her crock that one time. So I won't offer that. And the Pri... we won't let the hound lick the plates. Say, there wasn't a young Varisi lad around here, earlier?"
Gristav takes the two trays, one balanced on each arm, as if he'd done it before, and makes for the table.
"Clear a path!", he calls, settling the first tray onto the surface, landing it more like a bird than a petal. The second, bound for the far side of the table, gets edged and slid on, while Gristav says, "No plate-licking for the hound, but there's a whole portion here that's his. With Greatreave's permission, of course."
"Well, with the last of our scheduled interruptions in the past, and the report given up to the last we walked together, what's learned since? Most of what you've said, we'd known already, but good to have you confirm it all. Any more current news, on the lovely Lil's location? Actions?"
Braddon is only too happy to take a drink when invited. And the griddle cakes a moment later. One goes into his mouth and another from a different plate topples to the ground between Sludge's great paws.
Between mouthfuls, Braddon turns to Natinilinus. "Let me guess- you located Lil on a pirate ship out to sea?"
Braddon passes a knowing look to Gristav, a look that perhaps loses some effect from his full mouth and continued chewing.
The very wisest of squirrels...
"Have you butter and syrup?"
The proprietor provides a covered earthenware crock of butter and a small pitcher of warmed syrup.
"Say, there wasn't a young Varisi lad around here, earlier?"
"Not to draw my notice. Were you expecting one?" He lowers his voice again. "If you'd be so kind as to leave the betting sheet under a plate or the like when you're done. It would look like you'd left it behind, you see, and it would be my duty to keep it behind the bar in case you came back for it." He winks at Gristav.
Impatiently removing the ham from his plate, Natinilinus simply eyes the griddlecakes for an evaluative moment. "New-mown hay" he concludes quietly before leaning into the tendrils of steam and taking a deep sniff. Only after that, when Braddon's griddlecakes are already more than half eaten, does he apply butter and syrup sparingly and take a first bite, which he chews slowly and thoroughly with his eyes ruminatively closed.
"Let me guess- you located Lil on a pirate ship out to sea?"
The gnome's eyes fly open once more. "A pirate ship? Don't be preposterous. I haven't been to sea and back within the last twelve hours." Giving Braddon an admonitory glare, he returns his attention to the folded paper by his plate. "Lil Scarlet's flat," he recapitulates. "Above a cobbler, a milliner, and a scribe. Building in question belonging to the scribe, one Nathanael Weatherby, late of Korvosa. Said scribe suddenly put his affairs in order and left town Wealday evening; has not been seen since. Scribe's wife, one Cora Weatherby, claims some strange ruffians came to her flat after her husband left, looking for him and claiming he was running away to be with a mistress. Ruffians have alike disappeared, and she now fears they were merely playing on her emotions to sway her to betray her husband's whereabouts."
Sludge sniffs the griddlecake, snaps it up in his jaws, takes a few exploratory bites, and then lets the crumby remains fall to the cobblestones. The dog sets its front paws on the iron railing and pokes its long muzzle over the top of the enclosure, staring soulfully at the discarded medallions of ham lying in the congealed syrup of Natinilinus's first plate.
While the griddlecakes are excellent, they remind no one of either raspberry or tobacco.
Saul's son fled town after killing Cleg's son.
"Say, there wasn't a young Varisi lad around here, earlier?""Not to draw my notice. Were you expecting one?"
"Only hoping, not expecting. I'm too smart to expect what I'm fool enough to hope for.", Gristav admits ruefully. "I don't think he'd have tried to draw your notice."
He lowers his voice again. "If you'd be so kind as to leave the betting sheet under a plate or the like when you're done. It would look like you'd left it behind, you see, and it would be my duty to keep it behind the bar in case you came back for it." He winks at Gristav.
"I'll go one better; I'll come back for it. How late do you serve?"
"How late do you serve?"
"All eating establishments this side of the Velashu close their doors at sunset," Alex answers promptly, "Overlord's orders."
"Yes. Of course. And how early? Is there a bookend, to that rule?"
"Sunset to sunrise, the rule is. We can be cooking earlier to be ready for breakfasters, but doors don't open for business until you can see light over the eastern ridge."
"Scribe's wife, one Cora Weatherby, claims some strange ruffians came to her flat after her husband left, looking for him and claiming he was running away to be with a mistress. Ruffians have alike disappeared, and she now fears they were merely playing on her emotions to sway her to betray her husband's whereabouts."
Braddon rolls his eyes at Gristav.
"Did you get a good description of these ruffians?" Braddon asks taking another bite of his griddlecakes.
Piccolo sets his knife and fork on his plate, "Why do we need to know this information? It sounds like information Saul would already know. Did he task us with pursuing this Lil woman?"
"Yup. Lil is responsible for organising an attack on his casino on opening night, trying to frame him for the theft from, and kidnapping of, the General's daughter and was responsible for his son fleeing town after he killed Zincher's brother over her. If we kill her, Saul will love us forever. And she killed my Gramma."
Braddon glares at Piccolo.
Piccolo shies away from Braddon's glare, Why is he glaring at me? Very strange. "This is not a line of work I enjoy. I will assist as I may. Lil seems to be a deceptive woman with murderous intent. I do not want to be murdered because the blades of her pawns miss their intended victim. I imagine this Cleg Zincher will have to be dealt with as well. Few men will forgive the murder of their son...or brother...or is Saul's brother and Cleg's son...or the son of Cleg's brother...or...The spilling of kin blood is not often forgiven." Piccolo takes up knife and fork, "I do not like cold food."
Braddon waves a hand dismissively at Piccolo.
"You won't be murdered while I'm around. On Sunday I killed some bandits. On Moonday I saved the General's daughter. On Toilday I found Lil's hideout. On Wealday I caught her lackey. On Oathday I killed some spiders and some thugs. And today I killed some cultists."
Braddon takes a bite of griddle cake.
"You're safe with me."
Piccolo speaks between bites, "One does need...killers...to deal with...killers."
"We do strive to prevent murder. And we have failed. But we strive on. The syrup, please."
"Failed? None of those guys are going to be murdering anyone ever again. And I'm not a killer- I'm a bounty hunter. They picked the fight, I just won it."
Braddon turns to Natinilinus. "What do you know about missing girls? We've found... something."
Braddon pushes away the half eaten griddle cake as if he'd lost his appetite.
"My apologies, Braddon. I misconstrued your use of the word 'killed' in your description of your activities as a predilection for the activity." Piccolo sips his ale, A man that makes killing sound like a casual daily duty, yet does not consider himself a killer. I do not want to offend that type of man. He might kill a man for a perceived insult, then talk about it as though he bought a cup of ale. I hope I did not dig my own grave with this job.
"Did you get a good description of these ruffians?"
"I have not spoken with the woman directly," he replies. "The information is secondhand. Rumor has it they were Sczarni, but with these Leeward matrons, it's always Sczarni," he shrugs.
"To continue: Lil Scarlet's flat. Mostly emptied of evidence, save for the scent of her perfume and the seed husks and feathers on the floor." His chest swells with importance. "From an examination of the evidence, I would say that Miss Scarlet is in the company of a caged songbird, most likely a thrush. Find that bird, and you've found your tiefling."
"What do you know about missing girls? We've found... something."
"Eh?" he asks, irritable at having his moment stepped on. "Which girls are missing? From where?"
"A thrush!? How's that supposed to help!"
Braddon almost rises, doesn't, then glares at Gristav.
"A woman might disguise, or hide herself. But a thrush will sing, Braddon. Still, we knew that detail. Please, let Master Greatreave finish his report. Trust me, I do plan to ask for their gifts and genius on the matter of the... girls."
The gnome fixes Braddon with a cold glare before replying to Gristav. "I must admit that, in the hours since we parted last night, I have not located Lil Scarlet. No one seems to know where she is. The evidence, however, leads me to believe that she has fled with her landlord, the Korvosan scribe, ahead of the ruffians who threatened Mrs. Weatherby. Perhaps it's another case of a jealous lover seeking to eliminate a perceived rival."
"Peace, gentlemen. We are a cautious clique, Greatreave, and Braddon our sharpest and dullest edge at once. But be assured, we are confident in your abilities, and happy with your work. Happy enough to unhappily offer a set of dismal distractions from the thrush in gilding and the rushing tiefling..."
Uncharacteristically unbouyed by the wordplay, Gristav sighed, and revealed, "Braddon said, cultists fell, to his sword this day. We found, in their lair, ... trophies. Articles of women's wear, and little else to testify, to the identities of the ladies, presumed lost to the priest's predations. We are at a loss, but you might profit, and we all might gift their greivers, with a grim closure, an end of hope, a beginning of healing. All at your current rate, if impossible mercy does not daunt?"
"Let's have a look at these trophies," he replies with interest, pushing aside his plate to make room on the tabletop. "Where were they? In what condition did you find them? Were they cleaned and pressed or all jumbled together?"
"I don't have the items here. They are largely as they were found, jumbled in the villain's vault. Only, in that place no longer. Aware of your gifts, I've tried to keep them unsullied. If you've interest in the case, we... well, I and perhaps others will show you the scene of the crimes we suspect. That would be... no earlier than this afternoon, if you had interest, owing to our other commitments. Please don't take that as any sign of unimport, only of sadly-perceived... un-urgency."
"Very well," he sniffs. "Do you want me to look into the ruffians who leaned on the scribe's wife? Or simply await further instruction?"
"I think I know who these ruffians were, you needn't pursue that thread. Shall we plan a late lunch here, in the hopes we all can make it? And perhaps to then set you on another trail?"
"I can tell you right now, I'm not wasting my time chasing after women who you think might be in trouble. More than likely, they're nothing more than street trash. Possibly high dollar street trash who are willing to take part in anything as long as the price is right. Either way, it's all a guess and we've got more concrete matters to deal with. Now what I want to know is: Who are these so-called 'ruffians' and if you know who they are, why aren't we talking with them? If this Weatherby fellow hasn't been seen in a while, odds are they have him."
"The women we suspect the involvement of, we suspect are perished by Beltias' hand. I see no point to question their path or their price. The Weatherby fellow was seen leaving town. His path is known. And some of the ruffians... we are talking with, they sit at this table. Their path is toward the Publican, then the General. If we're full of cakes and empty of secrets, let's be on our way."
Gristav tucks an arena form under his plate, and rises to go make payment. "Leave that there.", he says directingly, as he goes.
"The only thing I question is why we should waste our time on conjecture. You can waste all your time on it if you wish, bub. I ain't interested." Snake then rises, pushing his plate forward. "Well, Greatreave, it looks like you've found your 'ruffians'. I'm guessing he had no solid information to give you?" He asks Braddon.
"I told you what was going on the night before last. If you have any more questions I can answer them on the way."
Braddon rises, looks at the griddlecakes, pauses then takes another one.
"Thanks," he addresses Natinilinus with a pat to Sludge. He pauses about to add something, then waves. "See you next time."
Piccolo incants a prestidigitation cleaning himself and his plate. "Excellent griddlecakes...A pleasure to make the acquaintance of a fellow gnome," he smiles at Natinilinus. He pushes away from the table and stands. "Good day, Mister Greatreave."
Gristav settles the tab with the Crispins, and the party takes its leave from Natinilinus and Sludge. They leave Alex's betting sheet folded beneath an empty plate and retrace their steps toward the river. Braddon once again passes the boarding house that never fails to attract his attention, knowing that Anya and Lexy are most likely either behind the window or at work a few blocks north. Having reached the Mystery of the Gate, instead of turning south toward the Gold Goblin, the men continue west toward the dock of Velashu Ferry where Grimas Oldtedler is waiting, leaning on his quant.
"Grimas, good day. You know Braddon. These other gentlemen are Piccolo and Snake... although I'm tempted to have said Bassoon.", Gristav grins.
Braddon raises a hand briefly as reintroduced but seems otherwise distracted.
Grimas looks exaggeratedly over the group and down the road behind Gristav. "What? No blonde this time?" he deadpans. "Where to, gents? If it's anywhere but across the river, you've come to the wrong man."
"I told you what was going on the night before last. If you have any more questions I can answer them on the way."
"The same guy, huh? Well at least I know his name now."
As they take their leave, "So is this Weatherby dead or alive?" he asks Braddon. "And I'm guessing he doesn't know anything since we're wasting our time with The gnome and his dog."
Grimas looks exaggeratedly over the group and down the road behind Gristav. "What? No blonde this time?" he deadpans. "Where to, gents? If it's anywhere but across the river, you've come to the wrong man."
"Gotta hand it to him, man knows his business and sticks to it," he comments. "I'm thinkin' we wanna go across the river, bub."
Piccolo nods politely to the ferryman as he follows his fellows onto the ferry.
As they take their leave, "So is this Weatherby dead or alive?" he asks Braddon. "And I'm guessing he doesn't know anything since we're wasting our time with The gnome and his dog."
"He's alive and well. Probably hungry. Saul has him downstairs. He tried to send a letter to Lil and was on his way to meet her when we caught him. The current plan is for the General to let the letter go through and then grab Lil at the meeting place, assuming she'd do what loverboy suggests. Saul isn't prepared to get too involved since Shorafa loves Lil and since she had his hand taken off he's a bit wary of her. We're probably letting him run off tomorrow but we'll ask the General what he wants done with the guy when we hand his letter over this afternoon. We think we've got everything out of him, but he's fought us every step of the way. I think it would have been easier if Malkith let me torture him for a bit- not much- just enough to show we were serious."
At the mention of torture Piccolo glances at Braddon, then looks away. He remains silent for a few seconds, then offers, "I have an incantation that might extract information from some. I am also quite good at interrogation. If it might aid our cause, I could talk to the man."
Braddon looks at Piccolo appraisingly.
"I think we've got everything. He'll probably just complain even more and add you to his list of people to kill for revenge but you're welcome to try. Are you any good at questioning dead people? We have one of those too."
"No. Dead people are beyond my means."